We Are Forged
by ZenBear
Summary: This is a story about my in-game character and his journey of self-discovery. Rated M for sex and violence.
1. Chapter 1

Ul'dah.

Surrounded by barren deserts and rocky badlands filled with monsters and other things more foul, it seems a most inhospitable place. Yet behind its great walls of reinforced stone lies the wealthiest center of commerce in all Eorzea, a place where any man or woman with enough wit and moxie can find their fortune. Merchants and adventurers flock here from all over the world to claim their piece of the action, and some among them find the opportunities they seek and make a name for themselves, leading lives of luxury that others can only dream of.

But most find that life within the walls is just as dangerous as the wilds without. Silver-tongued con-men lurk at every corner ready with the one great secret or special trick that they claim will get you rich quick, but in truth will leave you penniless or dead in a gutter with a knife in your back. Greedy merchants walk the streets as if they own them; and they do, for none who value their lives and livelihoods would dare cross a man who could buy the earth beneath your feet for the spare change he keeps in his pocket. While the wealthy enjoy lives of excess and debauchery, the poor beg for food or work in squalid alleys.

For all its dangers and depravity, however, Ul'dah is still a haven. It is a place that has sheltered dozens of generations from scouring sandstorms and marauding beastmen bent on pillage and slaughter. Its walls have never been breached, and its army of mercenaries is amongst the strongest in the entire world. The warriors of Ul'dah train every day to hone their skills, because like everything in the city, skill at arms can bring great wealth.

Ul'dah is the beating heart of Eorzean commerce, and the beating heart of Ul'dah is the Coliseum. Men and women from all walks of life gather here every day to fight for glory and wealth, or to gamble what wealth they own on who will die that day. Blood stains the sand so thick that not even the scorching sun and ceaseless wind could ever scour it clean. Yet always they come; warriors who will carve their names into the annals of history or die trying. Gladiators trained with sword and shield brawl with Pugilists who wield their entire bodies as weapons, and powerful Thaumaturges weave spells of devastation to the delighted roar of bloodthirsty crowds.

To some Ul'dah is the greatest opportunity they will ever find. To others, it is a refuge from the dangers of the wild world.

To Baldur Armani, Ul'dah is home.

He has lived in Ul'dah for all his life, born a merchant's son in a grand house in the wealthiest district. For many years he lived a life of comfort and joy, receiving the finest education money could buy. But it would not last. Fortune is a fickle thing, and it abandoned Baldur's family the day his father died on the blade of a poor street thug for his purse. His mother tried to keep things together, but the sharks of the merchant world smelled blood in the water. The business Baldur's father had worked his whole life to build was dismantled in days, and he and his mother were cast out of their home. For the rest of his formative years Baldur lived in near poverty, his mother working hard every day to keep a roof over their head and food on the table, but they could afford ought else. Eventually, sickness claimed his mother, and Baldur, barely a grown man, was alone. Not an uncommon story in the desert city-state, and like so many others with a like history, Baldur now found himself fighting for his life in the Coliseum.

The sun beat down mercilessly; sweat streaming down his face and into his eyes, but Baldur could not afford the distraction to wipe it away. He kept his gaze locked on his opponent, a dark-skinned Hyur dressed in a ragged loincloth and sandals. Despite his opponent's lack of armor, Baldur knew not to take him lightly. This man's body rippled with corded muscle as tough as iron, and while his skin would offer no protection against Baldur's blade he knew he would be hard-pressed to ever land a blow. The man before him was a trained Pugilist and could move with liquid grace and lightning swiftness. His punches would land like hammer blows, and worse still he was not unarmed; in each hand he gripped a thick hunk of bone – called hora – crafted to wrap around his knuckles to reinforce his blows.

Baldur took a slow, steadying breath as he continued to watch his opponent. He gripped the hilt of his small bronze gladius tightly, knuckles white from lack of blood. His heels bobbed up and down as he balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to move at a moment's notice. But his eyes never blinked, never wavered from his opponent. He had to react the very moment his enemy made his move, or he would be finished.

The dark-skinned man tensed suddenly, his left foot shooting forward an inch before retracting; a feint. Baldur's own body tensed reflexively, but he held back and did not shift his balance. Such a simple trick would not catch him.

The next time his enemy moved, it was real. In one motion, a single twitch of every muscle in the man's body sent the Pugilist hurtling through the air at Baldur; right fist cocked back and left knee leading. A straightforward assault, but executed with blinding speed.

Baldur was ready. He lunged forward and to the right, raising his small round shield to catch the driving knee and divert it to his left. As the man's body followed its own momentum he could not bring his readied fist to bear, and so Baldur now had the initiative. As his foe descended past he spun behind him, sword driving for his back, but the dark man flew past into a roll, escaping his reach. Once again the two fighters stood several feet apart, eyes locked and weapons ready.

Now Baldur charged, shield leading and sword tight at his side ready to stab. The Pugilist retreated apace, staying just ahead of Baldur's rush but unable to set himself for an attack. He tried to slip around to Baldur's left, hoping to use the visual obstruction of the shield to escape, but Baldur didn't allow it, sidestepping to keep the fighter in front of him and swiping with his blade as he drove further forward, backing the man toward the wall of the Pit.

This battle had been going for some minutes now without either fighter making much headway; the Pugilist was too fast for Baldur to catch with his short blade as he danced about, striking with feet and fists but never fully committing to a pitched fight at close quarters. If Baldur was going to ever land a blow, he would have to pin him down. So now he continued to press, herding the unarmored man with threatening swipes until he finally had the bastard up against the wall. Time to move in for the kill.

As soon as he felt the shade of the wall behind him, the Pugilist realized the time for retreat was over. Crouching low, he set his balance and launched a powerful forward kick right into Baldur's raised shield. Baldur's forward momentum was instantly halted, the jarring blow actually knocking his arm back enough that his head made brief contact with the rim of his shield. The ensuing millisecond delay left him open to a second kick, this one to his leading right leg that dropped him to one knee.

On the Pugilist came, fists pumping mightily in rapid succession from all angles. Baldur stubbornly kept his shield raised, blocking and diverting the heavy strikes as best he could. Under such pressure he couldn't regain his feet, and his left arm was quickly going numb. He had to change the situation, now.

Gritting his teeth in anticipation of what would come next, Baldur lowered his shield, leaving his head open for a devastating punch. The Pugilist shouted in glee, thinking he'd overpowered his opponent at last. Just as his fist came into contact with Baldur's head, he felt the edge of a metal shield crush his foot.

Baldur's head rang like a gong and blinding white light flashed behind his eyes, but he held onto consciousness. He'd known what was coming and had dropped to the ground with the momentum of the punch, defeating much of its power, but it still hurt like hell. It took more than a moment to for his vision to clear, but he didn't need to see to follow through with his ploy.

The Pugilist's foot was broken badly, and he cried out in agony with all thoughts of attack momentarily forgotten in his utter surprise. His hands lowered, clutching his leg; his face was low as he bent at the waist, and Baldur's shield met his chin with resounding force. His teeth cracked together and severed a small piece of his tongue as his head was thrown back, back, and then down to collide heavily with the dirt floor.

Ears still ringing and vision doubled, Baldur took a moment to find his balance before scrambling on top of his fallen and surely concussed foe, placing his short blade against his throat.

"I claim victory!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, words slurred but still intelligible.

A great roar filled the air as every voice in the Coliseum joined in exultation. Laughter and curses abound as gil changed hands and bets were settled. A deep bass voice called out Baldur's name as the victor.

Baldur slowly got to his feet, his foe still flat on his back but groaning and starting to move once again.

_Still alive,_ he thought. _Good._

Four men clad in the regalia of soldiers of Ul'dah came onto the sands, two of them dragging the semi-conscious Pugilist away and the other two standing at attention at Baldur's sides, his victor's honor guard ready to escort him from the Pit. To the continued cheers of the crowd, Baldur allowed himself to be led away, offering a wave to his temporary fans that'd made money from his exploits.

A short time later as he walked out of the Coliseum, a hefty bag of gil bouncing gaily in his hand, a small smile creased his face. After years of training and fighting for his life in the Pit, he finally had enough money to leave it all behind. His debt would be paid off in full, and what remained would carry him through his first few days in his new life.

With a spring in his step, Baldur Armani took to the streets, heading for the Quicksand.


	2. Chapter 2

"Ul'dah." Just saying the name brought bile to his mouth.

High upon a bluff overlooking the famed city in the sands, two cloaked figures stood vigil as the sun slowly rose over the eastern horizon. The short one, a Lalafell, was the one who spoke. He spat on the ground as if to clear the taste of the word from his mouth.

"You've a history with this place, I take it," replied his companion, a slender Elezen woman who stood nearly thrice his height. She considered him casually, noting the tight sneer he didn't bother trying to hide.

"Indeed, I do," the little one growled. He paused a moment, composing himself before beginning again. "'Tis why I was selected for this task, after all; I have contacts left in the city, despite my long absence. They will remember me still, I am certain. If they do not, I shall simply have to remind them who I am." The last he stated with such eager malevolence it actually caused a sickening shiver to run down the Elezen's spine. No one else could elicit such a response in her, but this vile creature unnerved her without even trying.

With a shake of her head the Elezen turned away from the rising sun, as much to hide her disconcerted expression as to shield her sensitive eyes from the damnable light. She hustled away from the cliff into the comforting shadows of the newly cut cave mouth. Even this close to the surface the ringing of pickaxes chimed clearly from the dark depths, assuring the woman that her minions were hard at work. She turned back for a moment before descending into the darkness to call out to her companion. "Are you coming, Zal?"

The Lalafell turned sharply on his heel to shoot her a dark look, pleased at the flinch of fear it elicited. "That is not my name," he said slowly, biting off every word. He gazed one last time at Ul'dah, the place he had been born, raised, and banished from so many years ago. His sneer returned, but this time the hint of a sardonic smile turned up the edges of his mouth. "Rise and shine, Ul'dah. At long last, your true master is coming home…

"Renko Zalenko is coming home."

...

The sun shone bright and clear above the Steps of Nald that day as Baldur Armani left the Coliseum. A soft breeze swept through the curving street, cooling the beads of sweat that glistened on his exposed flesh. He rubbed his head, hair shorn so short he looked almost bald, and he laughed out loud. Today was the day! Finally he would be free of his dull, dreary life of poverty and he would begin his new career as an adventurer. He would wander the lands of Eorzea, slaying monsters and saving comely maidens in distress. He would be a hero! Baldur glanced down at himself, examining his attire critically. His simple tunic, pants, leather gloves and boots would hardly offer much protection, and his hip noticeably bore no weapon. Arming himself would be the first order of business. Luckily, just ahead of him lay The Rudius. A weathered sign creaked on its old hinges in the wind, and a big, broad shouldered Roegadyn greeted Baldur with a warm smile and a wave as he approached.

"Baldur, my boy! How went the bout, today? Still alive, I see, so it must not have gone too poorly."

Baldur gave the big man a wide grin in return and shook his proffered hand. "Come now, Zagylswerd, do you even need to… wait, you didn't come see the fight? I thought you cared for me, old man!" he replied with mock despair.

"Bah, quit yer crying ya damn fool! I can't very well leave my shop untended, now can I?" Zagylswerd gave the young Hyur a wink, and then his expression turned a shade more serious. "What can I do for you, then? Come to buy yerself a sword, I assume?"

"Obviously! Why the hell else would I suffer your presence?" Baldur returned the wink, showing he meant it all in jest as ever, and dropped his big bag of gil on the table with a satisfying thunk. "Give me your very best blade, a man of my talents deserves only the finest!"

The Roegadyn looked at the "big" bag of gil with an amused smirk, then turned to his display shelf and retrieved a simple bronze gladius. "Of course, my lord, for such a grand fortune as you've brought me I'll offer only the mightiest of arms." He loosened the cord and opened the gil pouch, counting out the appropriate sum on the counter for Baldur to witness, then scooping it up and handing the pouch back to his customer. "Ye be sure to it sharp, and always wipe it clean a'fore ye stick it back in its sheath if ye don't want it to stain."

Baldur took the pouch and the blade and gave the Roegadyn another friendly grin. "Yea, yea, I got it. Thanks again, Zag, you're the best!" With that he gave the old merchant a wave and turned away, heading once again up the road toward the adventurer's guild known as The Quicksand.

The streets were clogged this day, citizens and foreign adventurers alike going about their business with vibrant efficiency. Still, despite the clamor, as Baldur climbed the steps of the plaza in Emerald Avenue he felt the nagging sensation that someone was watching him… with violent inent.

"Death from above!"

Even as his brain comprehended the words Baldur's vision was blocked by a roiling mass of fury, his head enveloped entirely and a sharp, irritating pain stabbing into the top of his skull over and over again. With a startled shout he staggered to the side, nearly toppling down the steps. He managed to catch himself, spreading his legs wide to solidify his balance, but before he could respond further the back of his right knee was hit and he went down hard, first to one knee then down to the floor. He knew he was beaten before he'd even had a chance to react.

"Surrender now if you want to live!" a high pitched voice, different from the first, demanded boldly.

"Please!" Baldur cried. "Please spare me! I'm too pretty to die!"

Laughing delightedly, a little Miqo'te Sun Seeker relinquished her hold on his face and sat on his chest. The young girl was dressed in cheap linen clothes stained with dirt and grime, but her radiant smile was undiminished. She held a small wooden sword in her hand, which she had evidently been jabbing into Baldur's head when she'd leaped on him. "Victory is ours once again!" she cheered.

"Nobody expects the Ul'dah Executioners!" At this, a tiny Lalafell boy came into view beside him, hands on hips and chest puffed proudly. At barely a single ilm in height the child was small even by the standards of his diminutive race.

Baldur grabbed the little Miqo'te girl about the waist and hoisted her off of him then stood up. "You got me again! You're skills are as sharp as ever, Kit!"

The girl giggled gleefully as he lifted her higher and plopped her down on his shoulders. He turned to the Lalafell boy and gave a respectful bow. "And you, Brusier, are getting stronger every day!"

The boy puffed his chest out even more at the compliment, beaming with the confidence of a man twenty times his size.

"We saw your fight today, Baldy, you were amazing! First the other guy jumped at you and he was like 'HYAH!' but then you totally dodged it and you were like 'BWAH' and then you chased him down and I totally thought you had him cornered but…" Kit rambled at a feverish pace, but Baldur cut her off.

"You watched my fight?! You know you're not supposed to be at the Coliseum!" he scolded. "It's no place for children and you now that. What would your mother say?"

Kit rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue out. "Mommy never lets me do _anything_ fun!"

Baldur shook his head in mock exasperation, then scooped up Bruiser and carried the two children up the steps into the alley. In the middle of the street three beautiful Miqo'te women danced, a handful of men sitting and standing around enjoying the show and cheering them on. As he came up to them they broke formation and twirled around him.

The lead dancer scooped Kit off his shoulders and hugged her to her chest. She was the eldest of the bunch, though you could hardly tell by looking at her. Her skin was lighter than the other girls but showed not a single wrinkle, and her eyes were a vibrant green that would outshine any emerald. "Baldur, my dear, always a pleasure to see you! My baby girl didn't give you any trouble did she?"

"Of course not, T'loria, she's been a perfect angel, as always. Jumping on people's heads and stabbing them with wooden swords is the pinnacle of courtly manners, after all." Baldur ruffled the child's hair as she stuck her tongue out at him again. Another of the girls snatched Bruiser out of his arms, twirling him along with her in another dance, while the third wrapped her arms around him and writhed seductively.

"The mighty Gladiator returns victorious yet again!" she crooned with a flirtatious giggle. "Have you come to celebrate?"

T'loria shot her a dangerous glare, but Baldur merely laughed, snatched the woman's roaming hand from his backside and spun her in a graceful twirl, tactfully extricating himself from her clutches. "I'm afraid I haven't the time, my love. I'm due at The Quicksand, and I don't think Momodi would like being made to wait."

The dancing girl pouted, her tail drooping low, but the mention of the adventurer's guild proprietor was sufficient to tame her. She perked up quickly and went back to dancing for the gathered crowd. T'loria placed the squirming Kit on the ground, the little girl scampering off again impatiently.

"So you're really going through with your plans, are you?" the woman asked, concern etched on her face. "The life of an adventurer is full of peril. Your mother would be scared out of her wits to see you taking on such a dangerous trade."

Baldur's smile faded a bit at that. "I know it, but the Coliseum isn't much safer. It's time I made a change, and you know as well as I that I've no talent for trade. I'd make a lousy merchant."

"Just be careful, sweetie." T'loria caressed his cheek gently, just as his mother had done so many times before. "We all loved your mother, and we love you just as much. We couldn't bear to lose you too."

Baldur took her hand in his and kissed it, bowing low. "I will, you have my word." He gave her a warm smile and waved farewell, turning away from the dancing troupe and heading for a pair large, iron reinforced double-doors close by.

As the doors swung open, Baldur was hit by a wave of scents and sounds that filled him with familiar emotions and old memories. He stepped in to a large, circular chamber with a raised walkway stretching across the front half of the room. Inside the curve of the platform beyond the handrail were set an abundance of tables, all filled with patrons of various races. Some were locals, Hyur and Lalafell merchants, crafters and laborers enjoying themselves after a hard day's work. Most were adventurers from all across Eorzea; here a trio of Roegadyn privateers from Limsa Lominsa drinking and laughing rowdily; there an Elezen couple from Gridania sipping wine and talking intimately. Waitresses bustled all about serving food and drinks and clearing tables as parties came and went. After taking a moment to enjoy the boisterous atmosphere, Baldur hurried on to the back of the establishment, seeking the proprietor. He spotted her immediately in her usual place behind the counter, chatting happily with a new adventurer as she so often was. When he caught her eye she abruptly stopped her conversation and turned to him. "Baby Baldur! There you are!" she cried, hopping up and waving her hand gleefully.

Baldur cringed a bit at the pet name. Momodi had known him for most of his life, ever since his father had died and his mother had taken a job here at the Quicksand. She had never stopped calling him "Baby Baldur" no matter how much he protested, so he stopped trying. "Hello Momodi! Good to see you, as always." He turned to the adventurer beside him whose conversation he had inadvertently interrupted, intending to apologize, but his voice caught in his throat.

A Miqo'te woman stood before him, dressed in the typical adventurer's attire of one of her race; long black leather boots, short red skirt, black and white blouse, and white sleeves with leather reinforcement. Her physique was slim and fit, but soft; she lacked the hard muscle tone of a warrior, but while she didn't lack for curves in all the right places she was not thick. Her skin was pale but not pasty; she was of the Seeker of the Sun tribe and so had a natural tan, but apparently didn't spend much time tanning. Her hair was short and fiery red. Her face was utterly unreadable, full lips in a flat line that was neither a smile nor a frown. Baldur took in all these superficial details at a glance, but it was her eyes that struck him speechless. Her right eye was blood red, her left midnight blue; a surprising if not unprecedented feature among her kind. Those intriguing eyes drew him in, her gaze intense. The instant they locked eyes Baldur could feel something click, a subtle but undeniable connection that nearly overwhelmed him. There was emotion lurking behind her mask of neutrality, powerful and drowning deep. It stirred something inside him, his own equally strong emotions empathically synchronizing with hers. The connection was so palpable it was almost physical, making him feel weak as a kitten and at the same time strong enough to take on the whole world.

The woman started, at first flustered at the intimacy of the moment, and instantly her expression turned so hostile Baldur feared for a moment she meant to strike him. The look passed so quickly he almost believed he might have imagined it, and she turned and walked away without a word.

Baldur stood stunned for many moments after, until his reverie was interrupted as Momodi cleared her throat. She gave him a strange look, at once a knowing smirk and confused tilt of the head, and answered the question he was about to ask before he even asked it. "She calls herself Valerie. No last name, and hardly the typical name for one of the catfolk, but she's not much of one for talking, as you saw yourself."

Baldur blinked at Momodi and then turned to watch the red-head as she sauntered across the room. She seemed utterly confident and at-peace, as if the encounter that still had him on his heels had never happened. He was so captivated that he almost didn't notice one of the men she walked past as she found a seat alone among the busy tavern tables.

Almost.

A tall, tan, blonde haired man in fine silk robes swaggered across the tavern straight for Baldur. He was flanked by two more men. One was smaller and dark haired dressed in black silks near as fine as the first. The other was dark skinned and bald, and walked with a noticeable limp; it was the very same man Baldur had defeated that morning in the Coliseum. Baldur grimaced and squared off to the newcomers.

"Well look who it is," the blonde haired man said with a cocky sneer. "What the hell do you think you're doing in the Quicksand, Brick? This is no place for a common pit fighter."

Baldur cocked an eyebrow at that last comment, pointedly glancing at the dark skinned Pugilist. "I'm not the only pit fighter here, Vass. You just insulted your own man."

Vass laughed bitterly. "There's nothing common about Lars, here. He only fights for fun, the money is just gravy. You're the only one here who has to beg for food when he loses a match."

Lars shifted forward, a violent snarl on his face as he said, "As you would have been doing tonight if you hadn't pulled that dirty trick."

Vass put a hand on Lars's shoulder, settling the man with that simple gesture. "Indeed. But then that's to be expected from a failure like you."

Baldur's ire rose at the insult, but he didn't act on it. Black thoughts and vile insults raced through his mind, but he didn't say a word. He knew from experience that there was no winning a war of words against this arrogant prick. He turned away from the trio with a disgusted shake of his head and tried to ignore them.

They didn't let him go that easily. The shorter man stepped forward and reached out to shove him on the shoulder. "Vass ain't done talkin' at ya, boy!" he barked.

His body reacted on instinct, muscle memory taking over before his mind could respond. As the man's arm shot forward his own right hand swept it aside, grabbing tight to his wrist and drawing his body forward and off balance. His left side pivoted in like a door on a hinge, left forearm driving hard behind his assailant's elbow, hyperextending the limb. With a cry of pain the dark haired man dropped to one knee, right arm numb and still locked in Baldur's hold.

The moment he realized what he'd done, Baldur knew he'd made exactly the mistake Vass had hoped for. He glanced up just in time to see the smug bastard's grin as his other lackey's fist slammed into Baldur's face. The quick jab was swiftly followed by a haymaker hook to his ribs, but it only glanced him as he backpedaled. The small one was still on one knee, right arm now cradled against his chest, and Baldur took the opportunity to slam a knee into his face, dropping him. Again his second opponent, the Pugilist from his bout just this morning, punished him for his aggression. This time a roundhouse kick nailed him right on the ear. Baldur's world went momentarily silent as his head snapped to the side. He stumbled, eyes blurry, but his body still knew what to do. His right arm came up to block the next kick aimed for the same spot, and he retaliated with another quick pivot, knees bent in a solid stance.

Closing distance was all Baldur had time to accomplish before his opponent's next attack, a fast right elbow aimed for his head. He ducked the strike, sinking lower into his stance and then powerfully back up behind the arm. His knee crashed into the dark skinned man's stomach, staggering him back. He knew the blow had been solid, had surely knocked the wind out of him, but it wasn't enough to drop the seasoned fighter. It had been a close fight in the pit, and then Baldur had been armed and ready, fighting one against one. Now he was engaged in a similar battle unarmed and outnumbered; the first man was already down, but he'd taken two hard blows he couldn't afford while he'd eliminated him. His ear still rang from the kick, and what little sensation he felt on the right side of his head told him he was bleeding. He needed luck if he was going to pull through.

As if the Twelve had heard his thoughts, luck came to him at that moment. In the brief moments of the sudden brawl, bystanders near the action had had little chance to get clear. Just as the dark skinned fighter was staggering back, a Lalafell patron was trying to scramble by right behind him. The two tumbled together in a heap, the Pugilist's head cracking hard against the solid wood floor. Baldur breathed a heavy sight of relief, knowing full well the man would be out cold. Two light concussions in the same day tend to do that to a body.

His relief was short-lived. In a flash, Vass was on him. The man's grin was replaced with a sneer. The first strike alone nearly put his lights out. Likely seeing the blood Vass's first hook landed square on the right side of Baldur's head. White light exploded behind his eyes and he wavered in and out of consciousness for half a moment, but again his body kept working independent of his mind. Still in perfect balance from his low, solid stance Baldur pivoted once on each foot, spinning a full circle and ending up two long strides away from Vass. His arms were up defensively, protecting his battered skull from further harm. Vass didn't strike for the head again.

Unbelievably quick, Vass's flying kick took Baldur right in the solar plexus. The force of the blow drove him back another three paces. He slammed to the ground hard and he lay there flat on his back, staring at the ceiling as he vainly tried to draw breath.

Vass was above him in an instant. "Still too slow, Brick. Always too slow." Vass's words dripped with venomous glee. His fist cocked back for the finishing strike and he was just about to bring it down when he stopped, his grin faltering. He looked down at the bronze gladius poised just below his ribcage, ready to drive home. Baldur and Vass glared at one another hatefully for several tense moments before a high pitched voice cut the air like a vorpal blade.

"Enough!" Momodi shouted, standing on her desk with arms on her hips. "I won't have any more brawling in my establishment tonight, ya hear? Now both of you get up off the floor and settle down before I have the bouncers toss you on the street!"

Vass hesitated a moment, glaring at Baldur and Momodi each before standing up. He spat on the floor next to Baldur's prone form. "Coward," he muttered, pointedly looking at the blade in Baldur's hand.

Baldur didn't respond other than to stand up and glare back. His breath came in shallow gulps and his entire body ached, but he held his gaze firm and refused to falter in his stance. After another tense moment Vass spun away and stomped out of the Quicksand, leaving his two unconscious goons behind. As soon as the man was gone, Baldur slumped onto a stool with a heavy groan. He was about to set his head down on his hands and maybe pass out when a sharp slap caught him on the bruised right side of his head. He let out a yelp of pain and looked at Momodi bewildered.

"What the hell are you thinking, boy?!" she cried. Her hands were still on her hips, legs planted wide with a firm frown on her face, but her eyes belied her true emotions. She looked at his new bruises with obvious sorrow and reached out to him again, more gently this time, to stroke his face. "You can't go picking fights like that, you damned fool. You're lucky I was here or he'd have done you in for sure!"

Baldur smiled sadly, clasping her tiny hand in his. "I didn't pick it, but I'm sorry for my part in it. I won't let it happen again, Momodi, I promise." His words seemed to mollify her somewhat, and she stepped back down off her desk and back to her chair. Immediately she started chattering at him, going on about the latest gossip and whatnot, but Baldur wasn't listening. His attention was inexplicably drawn away, to a small table in a corner of the tavern. Valerie sat there, staring at him, unblinking. He couldn't read anything in that gaze, but he knew she'd seen everything. He knew she'd judged him for his actions. Did she approve? Did she care? He couldn't know, but for some reason, it mattered to him.


End file.
